Love and Other Chemistry ♡ Trevor Zegras

10 | Milly

Part Eleven:
A Little Sweat & Studying

Reality hit me like a tonne of bricks as I walked through the double doors of the Iona ice rink late on Thursday afternoon. No, literally, it hit me square in the face, like a perfectly timed bitch slap or a slap-shot puck that accidentally rebounded off a nearby wall and flew at me with ludicrous speed.

I hadn't realised until this very moment how little Trevor and I had spoken in the days since our escapade at the mall.

Swallowing the lump that had started to form in the back of my throat, I took a deep breath, holding my chin high, and made a direct beeline for the boy in question. It had been days since our last study session and regardless of whatever issues had formed between us, Trevor and I had shit to do and grades to bring up.

I tried to ignore the downhearted drop in my stomach upon realising that the senior boy was in fact wearing a shirt this time. Shaking the strange pang of disappointment from my mind, I slapped a spurious grin on my lips, despite the trembling in my hands and erratic heartbeat within my chest. I knew this was a bad time to face him, but I needed a place that would catch him off guard and corner him into speaking to me. I figured, if he had an entire team of hockey players watching on, he wouldn't do anything that could possibly make him look bad. And, besides, Trevor never turned down the opportunity to talk to a girl, especially not in front of his team.

Walking with purpose, I pushed my shoulders back, an illusion of mock confidence present in my body language. I watched as his eyes flickered to my own, three emotions flashing through them seemingly all at once. Surprise was the first, fear being the second, and frustration the final. He tore his gaze away from me, focusing back on the practice game at hand, trying—but failing—to pretend he hadn't seen me in the first place.

With a deep sigh, I turned on my heels, fully ready to storm back out of there and never return. If Trevor wanted space, then I'd give him space, eternally. Fine by me. His loss. I'm not sad at all. Pshh.

With one last glance over my shoulder in the hockey captains direction, I caught sight of a divine realization, an image before me that proved that—yes, angels were real, truly sent by the heavens above and taking on the appearance of literal Gods. Trevor skated for the puck, his back hunched and his knees bent as an excited all-out-teeth-and-all smile graced his beautiful face. His stick whacked the puck like thunder, sending it careening at an overwhelmingly rapid pace towards a poor mere mortal on the other side of the rink. A boy with brown hair reached his stick out before him, attempting to catch or hit the puck back—whatever it was that hockey players did—I wasn't sure, though, he instead managed to knock it off course, sending it flying towards my face faster then I could say I accept my fate.

This is it. This is how I die. Death by gorgeous hockey player smacking me in the face. Here lies Milly Jones, cause of death, literal angel hits me in the face. Yippee.

However, right as I squeeze my eyes shut, tensing my entire body in fear of having a soon-to-be mangled face and slight concussion, the sound of my name being shouted, as well as skates tearing obnoxiously on the ice broke through my fear. I peaked one eye open, just to make sure that I hadn't been mistaken, and the puck wasn't still flying at my face. When all I found was Trevor standing beside me, his arm stretched out and his gloved hand hand open—now holding a puck in his pal—directly in front of my face, I slowly opened the other, giving the boy my full attention.

"Thank God," he huffed, seemingly out of breath. "Your face is way too pretty how it is. It'd be a shame if it got all messed up on Alex's account."

With a furious blush that probably had me resembling a beetroot, I avoided Trevor's intense gaze and alluring smirk. Taking a subtle step away from the boy, I tried my very best not to give in to my emotions, and kept my attention exclusively on his large hand as it stayed perched in front of me, the puck still trapped between his fingers.